


Sixteen

by quigonejinn



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quigonejinn/pseuds/quigonejinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The harnessing of Longwings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [DW](http://quigonejinn.dreamwidth.org/184816.html#cutid1) on 11/20/2012.

When you are sixteen, your father finds a man for you to marry. Your future husband is only a dozen years or so older than you; his first wife died of fever; he only has a few children. Even better, he is willing to give you and your enormous dowry the honor of his ancient name. He is not terrible-looking, either, for you have seen a him a few times from a distance. He may even be kind -- your father tells him that you like sweets, so one of his pages brings you a bag of spiced almonds and candied lemon peel when the agreement is reached, and additional bags of sweetmeats each week after that. 

The queen has given her permission, too. At the close of the year, you will leave her service. You will go into the country. You will marry this man. 

When you are sixteen and three months, the queen takes it into her mind to review the dragons at the covert stationed to the west of the Thames. She does not believe these reports she is receiving of the failure of the latest breeding efforts -- it is all the court can talk about. There had been such hopes for the tractability of the Honneur-d'Or in first-generation offspring, but it has not occurred, and they will lose another year's breeding, another year's advantage to the great Catholic breeding programs at Dax and Cuenca. 

"Why, it is just a little thing," the royal person says. She is old at this stage in her life, old enough that the white paint cannot cover the yellow in her skin, and she hits Burghley in the arm with her folded-up fan. The queen cannot believe that her realm does not contain a single man capable of taming the beast that is down at the bottom of the pit, scrabbling to stay upright: it cannot even fly, she points out, as those long wings keep fouling it. They have placed the pit in a covered building; there are twenty men around with solid steel weapons; is there not a single man in her kingdom has the courage to step forward? Burghley and the other great lords of her court crowd around to say that they have tried, but the acid -- the chains -- it will take no harness -- 

"Even the least of my maids," the Queen shouts, having worked herself into a royal fury, and the little beast chooses this minute to fling himself against the sides of the pit, keening loudly. The guards use their halberds to keep it from coming up out of the pit, but the other younger ladies squeal, then let themselves be talked into nervous laughter behind their hands. One of them had her heart set upon the man your father has now betrothed you to marry, and whether intentionally or not, with evil will or not, only to frighten you or otherwise, someone gives you a push. A nudge. It is enough. You overbalance; you stumble on your skirts, slide down into the pit, past the halberds, and into history: you tumble down into the bottom of the pit, landing with a thump. 

The dragon turns to you with enormous yellow eyes, startlingly slit down the middle like a cat's, but with green. Suddenly, the world goes very quiet. Your dress is too tight. The sand is not firm underneath your feet. It may be a baby, days out of the shell, but it is half as tall as you are, and the claws on its front claws are as long as a man's hand and gleam. The mouth is full of teeth. Never mind the acid. 

Then, the little dragon makes a strange noise. Its wings rattle; its claws dig into the sand. Tentatively, without quite knowing why, you reach a hand out to touch it. Why would you touch it? Perhaps it is because the dragon is so awkward, because it seems so clumsy, and when you touch it, it makes a noise under your hand like fifty cats purring at the same time. The skin is pleasingly warm, too, and shockingly smooth. 

You realize that you have stopped trembling. When was the last time when you were not trembling? Since before your betrothal. 

"I am so hungry," it says, in the softest, most plaintive of noises, and it turns its eyes upon you, then butts you in the midsection, like a hungry calf. 

"I didn't know you could speak," you murmur.

"No one has ever asked," it replies and looks at you. "I am so hungry." 

After that, there is nothing in the world for you but the dragon, those enormous strange eyes, the smooth strange skin. Your heart is beating very fast, and you untie a bit of ribbon that had been around your wrist, unwrap a small package: someone tosses meat down to you in a little bit, along with a harness. History will remember it as the first time that a Longwing fed from a human hand and was harnessed, but you remember it, to the end of your knowing him, as the hot tongue touched your fingertips, the great eyes closed in pleasure-- the great English sire Libertas had a taste for spiced almonds and candied lemon peel.


End file.
